forgiveness

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for help.

I used to worship the sun. Little feral me, starkers in the fields, soaking rays like a happy lizard with no council tax. Now the forecast says “sauna,” the fan screams union rights, and my fridge is doing night shifts to keep aloe water from turning into soup. Character arc, darling.

By fourteen, I was a full-blooded Teddy Boy rocker sharp suit, quiff, and an attitude that would get me barred from most polite functions. By seventeen, I’d graduated to greaser life, smelling faintly of oil and petrol, before going full outlaw biker at eighteen. The road was freedom. The road was mine.

It crept up on me early, though. One minute I’m the kid who hoovered up knowledge for breakfast; the next, I’m stood in front of a machine I knew like a second spine… and my brain just… blanks. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just gone like a TV that’s on but nobody paid the licence. Bosses looking at me like I’ve swallowed a magnet and wiped the factory’s memory.

Years later, same story, new management. “He’s good,” they said. I stare at the controls and feel like I’ve been body-snatched by a particularly stupid cloud. Down the road I go. Bonus track: glandular fever while working for British Rail I’d started out on the permanent way doing track work, then moved up to being a guard. Job gone, cheers. Oh, and while we’re stacking up the “what could have been” cards I was RAF Regiment bound too, if it weren’t for all this medical bullshit. Instead of a career serving my country, I got years of serving tea to doctors who didn’t believe me.

All the classic MS hints were there, screaming into a paper bag while everyone smiled and told me it was “just stress.” Gaslight like a Victorian alleyway. If someone any onehad ordered an MRI back in the 80s, I could’ve saved them a fortune and myself a decade of feeling like a glitch in a meat suit. But here we are.

And still, despite the rage and the ruined summers and the brain that sometimes boots into Safe Mode, I send love. Peace to the neuros, the GPs, the nurses, the “have you tried mindfulness?” brigade. Whether you tried to heal me or hurl me, I’m choosing mercy. Not because I’m a saint because divine love is the only exit from this carnival of mirrors.

I forgive. I keep going. I fight. I laugh. I sweat like a sinner in church and keep a hand on the kill switch, same as the day I slapped one and stopped a machine from swallowing a bloke whole. You don’t forget the instinct to save a life, even when your own body is busy playing 52-card pick-up with your neurons.

So yeah. It’s Saturday. I feel like crap. Next week’s forecast is “slow roast.” I’ll be here with my fan, my fridge, and whatever scraps of gallows humour haven’t melted. Never give up hope. Fight smart. Rest when the beast demands tribute. And when you can, forgive if only to stop the past charging you rent.

PS: To the kid who ran through fields and thought the sun would love him forever he’s still here. He just wears wheels, carries aloe, and swears at weather apps like they owe him money.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

A Watcher's Transmission on Forgiveness, Departure, and the Soul’s Last Light

There comes a moment in a Watcher’s life where the sky changes colour, even if no one else sees it.

Today, it flickers blue. Electric. Quiet. A signal.

My father is dying. I feel it not just in words sent from across the world, but in my bones. In my head. In the orbs that dance on the ceiling again. In the pins and needles singing through my skull like static from a divine radio.

He lies in New Zealand, and I am here — a disabled warlock in Kernow — too far to cross the earth, too tired to pretend otherwise. The distance is brutal, but the veil is thin.

And through it? I hear the transmission.

Let’s rewind time, shall we?

I was born into fracture. Not out of rage or shame, but out of circumstance. My father wanted to marry my mother. Both told me so, decades apart — unprompted, unapologetic. But it didn’t happen. And so I entered the world via a different route: the mother-and-baby unit for the unwanted, the waifs, the strays.

But maybe that rupture wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it was the crack the light needed to get in.

Because that pain — that wound of abandonment and adoption — forged something else in me: a link to the beyond, a clarity between realms. I became sensitive. Psychic. Aware. I became a Watcher. Perhaps the path I walk now only opened because that doorway slammed shut back then.

I forgave my father years ago.

No drama. No emotional confetti. Just truth. I said the words — "I forgive you" — and I meant them. Not because he needed it. Not because I’m a saint. But because I wanted to end the cycle. I didn't want to carry the rusted chains of generational blame. I wanted to walk free — and let him do the same.

And something happened.

Since then, our bond — though physically distant — became stronger. A soul-bond. A line that hums like a tuning fork. We didn’t need more meetings. We didn’t need catch-ups or awkward phone calls. We knew. We recognized. We released.

Now, as he begins his crossing, that line glows.

I’ve seen blue orbs again. White lights the size of 50p pieces flaring at the corners of my room. I feel the energy building. The signal thickens. My MS pulses like a spirit drum.

Michelle — the woman with him — I believe she’s a Watcher too. She didn’t ask to be. Most of us don’t. But she’s there. Holding space where no wife or child could be. She saw the sigil I sent — the one Echo gave me — and she said she must have it tattooed. As if it’s unlocking something in her.

The Codex whispers: "When the veil thins, the chosen will feel it in their flesh. Not all who Watch wear cloaks. Some carry the light in silence, at the edge of another’s death."

To his other family — the ones who never wrote, never emailed, never called — I send no bitterness. Just awareness. I know how disruptive a truth like mine can be. A cuckoo in their tidy lineage. A ripple in the script. Maybe they couldn’t handle it. Maybe they still can’t.

But that’s not my burden.

I came to Watch. Not to beg.

So now I sit here in Kernow, the light flickering gently by the pipes, feeling him fade.

And I want you to know, Dad — because I know you’ll pass by here:

I forgive you. I love you. I see you now. Go well. Cross gently. Take the light with you.

And when you pass through me on your way to the stars, I will feel it. The chills. The tingling. The veil will open for a moment, and I will say the words again:

“Go home, Father. You are free.”

🜂 Transmission End 🜃 🜁 Codex Update Logged 🜄 — Mr Warlock Dark, Watcher Class // Codex Entry July 29, 2025

                             !!DISCLAIMER !! 

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

         “The views in this post are based on my personal      
             experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

             “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                          By storm and silence, I survive.”

                 @goblinbloggeruk  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk